A few days ago, I’m walking back to my hotel. I notice an older man parking his bike against the bridge.

I smile at him and say hello and he comes right over.

“Where are you from?” he asks.
“South America,” I reply.
“Where exactly?”

I explain how originally I’m from Guyana, but now live in the US. This is all the kindling he needs. His name, he says, is Kuraku Geburu (at least that’s what his last name sounded like). He was named after Clark Gable because he was born just after Gone with the Wind was released. His English is very good. (He claims it’s because he memorized The Gettysburg Address, but I’m sure that’s not why.)

He tells me how at fifty, he decided he’d travel the world because when he was younger, a teacher (I think) told him to have a ‘big ambition’. So that’s just what he decided to do.

Now, he’s eighty-four. Using the Shinkansen (bullet) train, and his bike, he goes all over and taking photos which he posts to his website.

He’s been travelling Japan, North America, Europe and Asia for thirty-odd years, seeing places like Lisbon, Banff, Vancouver, spending weeks wherever he feels like it.

While we don’t mention dying, the word seems to hang in the air. Travelling he way he does, he says, is the best way he can think of to stay healthy and mentally sharp.

At this point, he hefts out a pouch from a capacious jacket pocket. Separating out a slip of paper with his name and a QR code, he hands it to me. His name really is Kuraku. He insists I use the QR code to look at his website right there on the bridge. His catalog of his travels is miles long and is rigorously maintained.

Using my phone, he scrolls and scrolls— and scrolls — for what seems like a year. Then he arrives at the very end of his photo list.

China. His first trip.

Every now and then, I attempt to help him navigate the phone better. Each time he moves it ever so slightly out of my reach. So I let him just do his thing. He’s exuberant, childlike in his excitement to share his stories.

And just when I’m settling into this unexpected and delightful conversation, he grabs his bicycle and says he has to go.

Since our meeting, I’ve been thinking about him.

Is he lonely, I wonder? Was that why he approached me? I infer that he had made these slips of paper with his website and QR code to gift to people whom he meets. — his own way of ensuring he’s remembered? His way of building his legacy? I can’t be sure. But whether he’s lonely or friendly, wanting to make connections or ensuring he’s remembered, what a pleasure it was to meet him!

Just get out there and live life, I’ve been telling myself since that afternoon. He’s doing it — and at eighty-four. What’s stopping the rest of us? What’s stopping me?

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